


Songbird

by eriathiel



Series: Fools [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eriathiel/pseuds/eriathiel
Summary: "Learning the lute in the first place was a tactical decision.”“Oh?” He blinked.“You’re not as expendable to the Templars if you can play music that makes their shifts a bit more tolerable."In the aftermath of Adamant, Cullen gives Evelyn a gift to lift her spirits.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Fools [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/700767
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Songbird

The twenty-four hours following each battle was often almost worse than the battle itself. Before the battles, there were endless waves of preparation required. There was no room to panic, and very little room to even dread. All they could do was think - of every possibility, every outcome, everything that could go wrong, and how they might in turn fix it and make it go right. During the battle itself, there was often only action. There was no time to dither or make lengthy lists of pros and cons, they just had to act, and hope that the actions they chose were the right ones - that their gut instincts weren’t leading them astray. 

Even directly following the battle, things weren’t exactly quiet. Aftermaths had to be dealt with, the dead given proper burials, the captured enemies dealt with appropriately. Often they were lucky if they found a moment to rest - properly rest in their tents, not sitting down with a water skein for all of two moments before it was back to it - until five or six hours had passed since the last blow was struck. It was almost funny that once they were afforded an extended period of rest, all they wanted was something to keep them busy. The silence was worse than the duties. Duties could be handled, silence could not - not unless they were to adopt dispositions like that of Sera’s. Cullen didn’t quite feel like resorting to that just yet. But the silence after Adamant had him questioning that decision. 

Evelyn was wound excruciatingly tightly ever since she stepped out of the fade. Any relief that he might’ve felt when he saw her step from the rift was overshadowed by the worry he felt over the stark grey-white colour her face had gone, and the stiffness in her every movement. Even around the war table Evelyn was a fidgeter. A nervous disposition that Leliana was taking great pains to coax her out of before the Winter Palace. But Cullen found it endearing, even back in Haven. Her fingers were always twisting the ends of her dark silky locks, or pulling at a loose thread on her shirt, or even just tapping out a silent rhythm with her fingertips on the wrist of the opposite hand. As she dealt with the fallout of Adamant, though, Evelyn stood still as a statue, moving only when it was necessary. 

He’d seen her like this before when she was angry, and anger would’ve been a justifiable emotion - at the wardens, at the decisions they’d made, at Livius and his manipulations, at Corypheus and his machinations...Maker, even just at the state of the world in general. But this wasn’t anger. There was no thinning of her lips, no icy glares into space as she refused to meet the eyes of those around her. Maybe the others would confuse it with anger. Perhaps that was even what she desired. She was a far cry from the woman who, upon being discovered by them out in the Frostbacks after Haven, had used her last shred of consciousness to remark to him “ _ it‘s rather chilly out there _ ”. It was understandable that people would mistake her lack of smile for fury. But Cullen knew her better than that. Cullen knew that she was clinging to composure by the very tips of her fingers, and that it couldn’t last forever. 

So once the only matters left to deal with were either not time sensitive, or could be delegated elsewhere for now, Cullen ushered her away to his tent. Propriety be damned - he was still Commander, and it wasn’t impossible that he might have matters to put before her after a battle, and anybody who saw fit to gossip about them in the wake of everything that had quite literally just happened, they could explain themselves to him. 

The moment the flaps of the tent fell shut behind them, Evelyn crumbled. A high-pitched whimper of a sob that she didn’t intend to let out - not if the hand she quickly clamped over her mouth was anything to go by, ever-concerned about being the strong, fearless, unshakeable Inquisitor she believed everybody expected her to be. Cullen didn’t have to think about how to respond. He wasn’t going to stand and watch as she sobbed quietly to herself in the middle of his tent. Striding towards her, he pulled her to him and wished he’d seen fit to remove his armor before now. Pulling her against cold, grimy steel would hardly be of much comfort. But instead of pushing him away or balking at the state of him, Evelyn clung to him like he was a buoy amidst stormy waters she’d found herself stranded in. 

There was nothing he could say that would make the hurt go away. Not so soon after it had happened, just like he knew for a fact (even if he hated that fact) that he’d have despised her had they met the day after his ordeal in Kinloch Hold. Some things just needed time. But he would be here with her while she took that time, if she would allow it. It warmed his heart to see that she did, even as it chilled it to see her unravel so. It was better than the alternative, though. A bowstring wound too tightly was likely to break if not unravelled. He could not bear to see Evelyn break. 

So he stood, he held her as she wept it out, and he wished he had the power to remove the burden that yet remained on her shoulders even if only for a day. Yes, he could ease it (Maker, he hoped he could), but it would always be there. Even when they defeated Corypheus - he said ‘when’ not ‘if’ ever since they’d gotten involved, because there was no other alternative that he could contemplate - she would still be the Inquisitor. There was no game of chess, no ride through the wilderness, no midnight walk on the battlements while they nibbled on stolen treats they’d thieved from the kitchens like naughty children, that could entirely erase it all from her mind. Not even sleep would do that, if her own nightmares were anything to go by. 

Outside, the camp was growing about as quiet as camps like these ever did. With urgent business seen to and the midday Western Approach sun beginning to bear down on them, it seemed many had retreated to their tents or whatever patch of shade they could find. It probably helped, he thought ruefully, that neither he nor Evelyn were present to rouse anybody into busy-work for the sake of show. Their people were far from lazy, but they were still people. There were few men alive who didn’t work just a tad harder under the gaze of their boss. 

It was difficult to say how long they stood like that, but eventually Evelyn’s sobs subsided and she created enough space between them for her to wipe at her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. 

“Don’t be,” he said, and he meant it “I’d rather you did this here than in your own tent, alone.” 

He remembered wishing he could be there for her more after Haven, but while nearly losing her had emboldened him when it came to showing his budding feelings, they still hadn’t been quite close enough for this back then. Certainly not as close as they were now. At some point over the course of the morning a great copper bathtub had been brought to his tent and filled, ready to be used whenever he returned. It would be lukewarm by now, but hot baths in this climate weren’t ideal anyway. 

“You take the bath,” he slowly dropped his arms down to his side.

“It was drawn for you - there’ll be one in my own tent waiting for me.”

“I’ve faced greater perils than used bathwater. If you’d rather be alone, I understand. But if you wouldn’t, the bath is yours.” 

Evelyn considered it for a moment, and then she unstrapped her staff from her back and lowered it to rest against the rickety wooden table that acted as his desk while they were here. As she undressed, Cullen stuck his head out of the tent and asked that a change of clothes be brought for her, along with some food for them both. By the time he was finished seeing to that, she was already in the tub. 

By now they’d already  _ been together  _ a handful of times (five, to be exact, but Cullen refused to acknowledge that he’d kept a mental count, purposely or no - he wasn’t a damned teenager) and while he was sure he’d never quite get used to the sight of her unclothed, when he took her in now it was more with concern than lust, scanning what was visible of her shoulders and arms for any sign of injury. 

There were a few scratches and scrapes, and there were sure to be bruises waiting to blossom properly, but most of the blood on her didn’t seem to be her own. The rest was just dirt and grime. 

“I sent Stroud to his death.”

Her voice was devoid of emotion as she said it. 

“Stroud sacrificed himself. There’s a difference.”

The responding, monotonous hum she gave was one that he recognised - that she had little interest in further pursuing the conversation further. For now. It would come out eventually, when she was ready to let it, and he wouldn’t force the matter. Little good would come of that. 

Cullen was unsure of what to do with himself as she bathed. He knew what he wanted to do - to approach her and untie the long braid that fell down her back. To wash out the mud and the blood and the ichor - for it would give him something to do with his hands, it would give her one less thing to worry about, and it would remind him that she was here. She was alive. Because there were a few very real moments during the previous night where he thought their luck had finally run out. But would she welcome such a touch? Would she see it as an attempt to initiate more? 

There was a pause when a runner coughed awkwardly outside the tent, and Cullen quickly ducked out to accept the clean clothing and their meal of cheese and dried meat, carefully wrapped in paper, and only once he was back in the tent and had dropped the items to the desk did he stop and consider what to actually do. And then he made a decision that was rare for him - that he’d done entirely enough thinking for the morning. 

Evelyn’s gaze did not go unnoticed by him as he unbuckled his armor piece by piece and carefully put it on the desk to be cleaned and seen to properly later on in the day. His clothes followed, but those he allowed to drop to the floor for now. Then he climbed into the tub behind her, mentally thanking Josephine and her insistence that they take the great copper tubs with them rather than the buckets that would allow for little more than a bird-bath. The water was barely warm, but it was soothing - and Evelyn’s bare back pressing against his chest once they settled comfortably was more so.

Their touches were purely platonic. They were both too exhausted, preoccupied, and sore (in that order) for much else. That would come later, when they had the energy to truly celebrate the fact that they both still lived...followed by a sequel in Skyhold, once they had a proper bed and some privacy. And while he looked forward to it, he would argue that he enjoyed this - just being with her, wrapping his arms around her and knowing she was here, she was safe, she was alive, just as much. The same assurances seemed to settle her, if only a little. Her muscles untensed, and the vacant sort of horror drained from her face, replaced just by tiredness instead. The horror would return at some point, and they’d need to have a real conversation about Stroud. But not now. For now, he could soothe the weariness, and handle the worse parts that she’d stuffed deep down when the time was right. 

By the time they were done bathing and were present enough to get out of the tub and see to other matters, the water had gone about as cold as it would get in this climate. They dried, and Cullen gave her one of his shirts to wear for now rather than condemning her to spend the next half hour buckling and tying herself back into her ‘Inquisitorial’ gear. 

Once she’d shrugged it on and he stifled his fond smile at how it drowned her, he tidied a little and picked at the food while she did her best to stop her hair from dripping down her back. It was so long that it likely wouldn’t be dry until the sun had set, not unless she went out into the hot sunny day outside. For now, though, they were both quite content to pretend the world outside wasn’t a thing. And the moment presented Cullen with an opportunity he’d been waiting for for some time. 

“I have something for you.”

His voice felt all too loud in the silence that had enveloped them for a good while now, but it stirred Evelyn from her thoughts as she blinked at him, apparently unsure whether she’d heard him correctly.

“More reports?” 

“No, nothing like that.” 

He understood the assumption. After the handful of days they’d just had, nevermind the lives they were leading, there was always something more. Everything they did left them with even more to do - every completed task created ten more that had to be seen to. So they had to always be ready, always alert, always prepared. It was a feeling he knew well, and he recognised it in Evelyn in the way she tensed at every noise, every movement, every, well, anything. It was always worse after a battle - when those ‘tasks’ turned into attacks, and every enemy felled gave way to ten more until it quickly began to feel like it would never end. But then it did, and they were left constantly poised for attacks and disasters that did not come. 

The first time Cullen managed to fall asleep after Haven, he was jerking awake from every doze after no more than a few moments, ready to deal with another onslaught, or to do another count to make sure all of their soldiers were accounted for and none had been lost in the blizzard, or to look to the horizon in search of the tell-tale green glow of Evelyn’s hand just one more time. Attempting to rest would not provide rest until their minds had registered that the latest travesty was dealt with. The solution was to keep busy, but to do so in a way that wouldn’t provide further stress. Such a thing was rare in these times, but he believed he had a solution - for her, at least. 

“I have a gift for you.”

Evelyn’s deep green eyes widened in surprise, and he couldn’t help but give a tired smile at her astonishment. She deserved more - to be showered in signs of courtship every day. But their circumstances didn’t allow for it, so he had to settle for this. 

“Dorian made a very strong point of telling me all about your inspection of the lutes in Val Royeaux before you ultimately decided it was too frivolous to spend coin on,” he explained, reaching beneath his cot to retrieve the case. 

In truth, he’d had it since a week before they left Skyhold. It had lived beneath his bed, waiting for the opportune time. There had been plenty of chances, if he was being honest - plenty of moments that almost had him moving to retrieve it, but something had always stopped him. Adamant loomed heavily before them for a time that felt like it would never end when they were going through it, and somewhere in the back of his mind he managed to convince himself that if he reserved the gift for afterwards, as a celebratory gesture, then they’d  _ have  _ to win. It became an odd sort of superstition in his mind, but now he was glad he’d waited. 

He’d sought out Maryden’s advice on the matter, and upon receiving her recommendations he wrote to the luthier with his request, along with a good chunk of his wages...and may have off-handedly mentioned that the purchase was for the Inquisitor herself, just to aid both speed and quality. He had not been disappointed. 

Evelyn regarded the case with unabashed wonder, which only intensified as she opened it, doing so reverently as if the case itself was the gift. When she saw the lute, though, polished to such a shine that he could almost see their faces in it. 

“Oh, Cullen.”

She said his name with such emotion - such sheer unbridled affection, that Cullen thought for a moment that he might choke up too. 

“Is it right? I don’t know a thing about lutes, and I know each player will have their own particular preferences, but I couldn’t exactly ask without ruining the surprise…” 

He rubbed the back of his neck as she traced her fingertips up and down the strings, before carefully lifting it out of the case like it was a newborn babe that she feared waking. 

“It’s perfect, Cullen. I don’t know what to say...thank you -  _ thank you _ .” 

Unable to do much more with the instrument in her lap, she reached out her hand and grasped his, bringing it to her lips and pressing and long kiss to his knuckles. 

“You deserve something good for  _ you _ , not for the Inquisition.”

“I have you.”

“I’m not sure that’s anything worth boasting about,” he replied drily. 

“Shall I pen a ballad extolling your virtues?” She teased, plucking at the strings. 

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“ _O’ faithful Commander, with eyes of honey and a kiss even sweeter_ ,” she spoke slowly and thoughtfully “Sweeter, sweeter...what rhymes with that?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbled.

“That’s not even a half-rhyme, come now,” she scolded with a teasing grin “Hmm... _Your sword arm may rival even that of the Seeker_?” 

“A ballad that will have Cassandra handing my arse to me, fantastic.”

“All right, all right, for the sake of your lovely backside I’ll abandon my dreams of becoming a minstrel.” 

“You’ve spent too long travelling with Sera,” he snorted, before turning curious “Do you sing?”

“Not properly - usually only when I’m alone, which was...well, never. Not in the Circle, anyway, and seldom still now. Learning the lute in the first place was a tactical decision.”

“Oh?” He blinked.

“You’re not as expendable to the Templars if you can play music that makes their shifts a bit more tolerable,” she gave a joyless half-smile “Being a singer too, though, would only attract unwelcome attention. Being a decent lute player was a novelty - nobody wants to lose the mage who plays the pretty songs during the tedious shifts. Having a fair voice? That’s a step too far.  _ That _ would make you an object of desire, and being an object of desire was dangerous. I had to toe the line…I had to be a piece of the furniture - a valued piece, but a piece no less.”

“And how old were you when you made these calculations?”

“Thirteen or so. I looked fifteen, though. Old enough for most - perhaps too old for one or two of the others...”

She was too preoccupied with the lute to notice how Cullen’s face turned stony, continuing casually “The one we had was missing a string, so we had to make do. This one is far lovelier.”

When he failed to respond, she turned to him and then stopped, realisation washing over her features before she sighed softly and reached out to clasp the hand she’d just kissed.

“I’m not there anymore.”

“And you never will be,” Cullen replied.

Now it was Evelyn’s turn to still.

“We don’t know that, Cullen. It’ll be largely left up to whoever next becomes Divine, I imagine.”

“The frontrunners being Cassandra and Leliana - do you imagine either will do such a thing to you?”

“If they decide to do the same to every other mage, I imagine they’ll have to. What would they decree? ‘All mages must return to their Circle towers’ followed by ‘except Evelyn Trevelyan, she’s cool’ in small print? There’d be riots. Against them, against me for allowing such a thing…”

Whatever levity they’d manage to carve out for themselves was fast draining away, and Cullen regretted the broaching of the matter entirely, even if he couldn’t quite remember exactly how they’d gotten onto the topic. Her history with the mage rebellion was no secret to him - to anybody, for that matter. She might not have been one of the major players, but she was an ardent supporter. It was the reason he’d silently assumed they would forever be at odds with one another when they first met. How wrong he’d been. But still, for all of their closeness now, the matter of magic and those who wielded it was always one they carefully side-stepped when not donning the masks of Inquisitor and Commander. 

He’d asked her once what her past-self might’ve thought if she found out that she’d soon find herself  _ involved  _ with a former Templar. A cowardly way of fishing to see if the matter bothered her now, in hindsight. Her answer, given tartly, was to ask what  _ his  _ younger self might say if he found out his future lover would be a mage. Which...served him right for asking. The question was more pointed than biting, though, and it answered his question without turning it into a long painful process - neither of their former selves could’ve foresaw this, nor would they have approved. Luckily for him, they had no say in the matter. 

“Evelyn,” he began reluctantly “When you were in the Circle...did any of the Templars…?”

He trailed off, unsure of both what he was asking, and whether he wanted an answer. But he had to know if she’d been harmed in some way, not least because he’d hunt down the man responsible personally. No doubt with half of her inner circle following him, if they caught wind. Evelyn didn’t wait for him to clarify, though.

“No,” she shook her head “Never. Believe it or not, I was good at blending in before all of this.” 

He did believe it. Now that he knew her, he found it impossible to imagine a day where he would not think of her, or notice something to admire in her (even when she was off travelling, because Maker, he was in deep), but he was observant. His powers of deduction might not have matched those of the Iron Bull’s, but he wasn’t a complete blundering oaf. Maybe he just recognised her mannerisms from his own days in the Circle, or maybe he just paid more attention to her than he’d ever admit but, whatever the reason, he did notice. 

When she wasn’t playing the role of Inquisitor with such dedication that she might as well have been on a stage - when they were alone in one of their quarters, or in the tavern, or one of the few other places where there were no eyes constantly glued to her, she had a habit of making herself smaller without fully realising it. A hunch of the shoulders, the crossing of her arms, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her, or keeping her head down so that her long dark hair hid her face. 

It warmed him to see, though, that she was slowly losing those habits around him. It happened bit by bit - as she sprawled her legs out to the side of the table when they played chess in the gardens, as she plaited her hair (and the security blanket that it offered) back from her face when they settled down to do paperwork together...even in the way she sat now, the nightshirt she wore slipping from one shoulder and riding up scandalously around her upper thighs while she made no move at all to correct it. 

Did she notice similar things in him, he wondered? He knew he acted differently around her than he did  _ out there _ . There were a number in the inner circle who took great pleasure in pointing it out to him, but they didn’t need to. He  _ felt  _ different around her, never more so when it was just the two of them tucked away in a brief moment of solace. The weight eased from his shoulders and the trials before them didn’t seem quite so impossible. He was just unsure of how it manifested in his actions. Varric had once commented on how he smiled more (although the dwarven author phrased it as “the only time he ever smiled”) as a consequence of Evelyn merely being within sight, nevermind within reach, but he wasn’t aware of it. 

That was the key, in all likelihood - he wasn’t aware. The actions weren’t carefully monitored or calculated, like the squaring of his shoulders in the face of bad news to stop morale from dropping, or the twist of his lips when the soldiers needed to put more energy into their drills. He was no great player of the Game like the other advisors were, but he understood the power of a few subtle movements. And those were rarely things he needed to take into account around Evelyn. He could just  _ be.  _

Watching her as she plucked out a few careful notes on the lute, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have noticed her - truly noticed her - if they’d met under different circumstances. If none of the horrors or the disasters had happened, and he’d simply been assigned to her Circle when he was younger and greener. Would his eyes have drifted to the young woman whose awareness was limited solely to the book in her hands, and stopped there? However unimportant the answer was now, he couldn’t help but wonder. It was a good thing, he supposed, that they’d never know.

If the answer was ‘no’, and they’d have simply drifted past one another day in and day out with little more than a cursory glance or a muttered instruction, the idea struck a strange sort of sadness into him. If the answer was ‘yes’, however...that their eyes would meet across the room and rarely part again, that they’d communicate in palmed notes and brief whispers that would lead to forbidden trysts in abandoned storage cupboards like they were characters in the novels Cassandra thought nobody knew she read...that struck more than sadness into him - indeed, it filled him with dread. Such a thing would end well for neither of them, but certainly not Evelyn. Depending on the superior, he’d receive a slap on the wrist and a new station. But Evelyn? Tranquility, at best. Or worse, the other Templars in the Circle taking the news as a signal that she was ‘ _ up for it _ ’, and caring little for what she had to say on the matter. 

As he sat there with her on his cot, his thigh pressed against hers as she began to play the lute properly, all of those terrible possibilities fading into what they were - irrelevant fears and inconsequential nightmares - Cullen did something he thought he never would. He thanked Andraste for the fall of the Circles and prayed that, in Evelyn’s case at least, they would not rise again. 

“Do you think Maryden might teach me ‘ _ Sera Was Never _ ’?” 

“Probably, but why would you want her to?”

“If I hum a few bars here and there it gets stuck in Dorian’s head for days. How much do you think I could annoy him if I actually learned it properly?”

Cullen laughed tiredly, shaking his head and Evelyn with him. They were strained, cheap imitations of real laughs, but they did the trick - as they regarded one another the laughs faded to smiles. Sad smiles, but real ones all the same. They would endure. They would endure right up until they could stop doing so, and start thriving. It would come, it  _ had  _ to, just as surely as the dawn would. Until then, Cullen would fight for it. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
